


The Necromancer's Wife

by silentgraywarden



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Angst, F/M, smut-lite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-05 16:55:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5383175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentgraywarden/pseuds/silentgraywarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tertia Blackwell gave up <i>everything</i> to be with him - to be the wife of the Reachmage, never imagining that it would lead to her being betrayed by him and sacrificed to Molag Bal. The Eight saw fit to give her another chance as the Vestige, a tool to end Molag Bal's assault on Nirn. </p><p>Restored to Tamriel with a fragmented memory and sporadic visions of a man who calls himself the Prophet, she tries to make a new life for herself and to come to terms with the weighty responsibilities place upon her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first real attempt at a multi-chapter story; I've always wanted to write one, but I always ended up quitting because I couldn't stick with it. Feedback is very much appreciated!

Grenna gra-Kush stared at the back of the plump brunette at the bar, a woman she occasionally regarded as a friend and more recently as an ally for the crown. Tertia Blackwell was many things - a petty criminal being her fondest and foremost occupation, but she was unflinchingly loyal to those who had her back and was thus a valuable asset that Grenna had come to heavily rely on, particularly as it related to the King's intelligence network and the appearance of the Bloodthorn.

The air was different tonight; she was not plying her deceitful trade, coquettishly pouring herself onto the lap of some questionable looking patron, swooning and fawning over doubtful boasts of chivalrous rescues and brute force against ogres as she felt them up for coin and valuables. Tonight she was alone, back bowed slightly as she stared vacantly into her drink, ignoring Grenna's presence as she slid onto the stool beside her.

"Roy's dead."

Grenna could barely hear the strained whisper over the chorus of voices surrounding them, but the sorrow was painfully apparent as she felt the full weight of Tertia's gaze - normally bright brown eyes bloodshot and livid, cheeks flushed an angry red as she took another deep gulp of the grog she was cradling, downing the remainder of the stuff and impatiently flagging down the innkeeper for more.

"I'm sorry, Tertia." she paused, stiffly placing her hand on the younger woman's shoulder, "He was a good man. I know how much he meant to you."

"Let me guess," she grunted, dismissing the empathetic affirmation and nodding graciously at Gregoire as he returned with her drink, "You need me."

"There's a man upstairs - Stephen Leveque. We think he may have ties to the cultists." She reached into her jerkin, sliding a small doeskin pouch at Gregoire; the Breton immediately pocketed the payment and without a word began brusquely dispersing the stragglers that lingered within earshot of the two women.

"I want you to talk to him - without killing him, if you please."

"Done." she smirked wickedly, slamming the unexpectedly empty flagon on the counter and slinking towards the stairs, "Tell me, if something were to happen to him, say, a dagger to the throat or a fireball in his face..."

_Malacath's balls..._

"Please, just go."

"Don't wait up." With a sly wink and flourish of her billowy black robe, she was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Tertia studied her mark scrupulously as she lingered in the shadows at the top of the stairs - Stephen Leveque was short for a Nord, with thick blonde hair and shifty steel blue eyes that no doubt lingered too long and hard on females and that burned when presented with an opportunity of questionable gain. He obviously thought himself essential as he was richly dressed, clad in an opulent green raiment that flaunted his broad chest and strong shoulders. He was trying too hard to appear important, she concluded with amusement, as he jabbed his pointer finger into the chest of the cultist before him. She dared to edge a bit closer, creeping softly across the worn oak floors of the inn's second level, her eyes never leaving the pair and ears straining to hear their now heated exchange.

"I don't care what he wants -"

"You had _one_ job, Leveque." the cultist seethed, pushing Leveque back suddenly and slamming him into the wall, dagger pressed to his neck, "Give me a reason, _worm_. My master will be so pleased with your execution."

A second cultist missed her attention in the far corner of the room and she swore under her breath as he lurched forward.

"Intru -" the muffled cry died in his throat as her hunting knife lodged in his neck, thrown swiftly with a kiss and a prayer from her crouched position. His counterpart released Leveque and turned on his heel, regarding his fallen associate dispassionately as the doomed soul shuddered, fingers twitching uselessly at his throat as blood poured from the wound to pool beneath his slouched body.

He advanced on her then, eyes murderous in their intent as he smirked, head tilting from side to side at a snail's pace as he looked her up and down. She knew what he was thinking, what they always thought when they looked at her - so slight, so fragile, a scared little girl playing a game she didn't understand. _She loved it._ She played it up too, immediately meeting his predatory stare with wide, tremulous eyes and parted lips, chest heaving dramatically as she gathered her magicka, mind wandering to the part where she blasted him off his feet and cut him down like the wolf he pretended to be.

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, "You don't have to do this!"

"Do what, _little bird_?" He leered at her, close enough for her to feel his breath ruffling her hair as he circled behind her. When he came around again, he was touching her, gloved fingers digging into her shoulders painfully as she looked up to get a clear view of the ferocious bloodshot eyes that considered her face. There was something deeply unsettling about the way he regarded her, an ancient memory thrumming beneath her subconscious that conjured a fuzzy recollection of harsh blue eyes, so clear and demanding in their intensity that they sharply bore into you until there was nothing left to fight back with. She couldn't suppress the shudder that tore through her making her spine straighten uncomfortably. The assassin hadn't missed it either, she could feel the heat of him and the twisted smile that spread his full lips and brought his left hand up to knot into her hair, the other in a vice-like grip at her jaw.

Leaning forward on her toes and bracing her hands on his chest in a gesture that clearly confused him, she crushed her lips to his, his smile wiped away with the clink of teeth and sharp intake of breath, the hand clenched in her hair loosening slightly as he deepened the kiss.

_That's it, you fetcher._

As anticipated, the lightning hit him in the dead center of his chest, a dissatisfied groan tearing from her throat as their lips separated, his surprised expression permanent as he fell at her feet. _What a waste_ , she thought as she stepped over his corpse, taking a moment to appreciate the sharp lines of his face, _he sure knew how to use his tongue._

The room's last remaining occupant let loose a rather undignified gasp, clearly horrified as he trembled from his stoop halfway up the attic stairs, knees knocking and hands pressed to his mouth. On her next step, he bolted up the stairs and she charged after him, throwing a spark down next to his feet and propelling him against the wall. She pressed her forearm firmly against his neck, leaning heavily against him and so close she could count the pores on his nose.

"What...you...I...Please don't kill me!"

"Gods, I'm not going to -"

"Please..." he cried, not listening and instead fumbling with the ties on his tunic, sweating buckets and blathering about how valuable an ally he could be, each stuttered word and worthless promise adding nail after nail to his coffin as her patience quickly waned.

"Have mercy!"

"Leveque, if you do not tell me who is responsible, I can't help you."

"Martine Lerineaux."

"You say that name like I should know it."

"He's a reachman, he's been an agent for the Cult in this city for some time now." He struggled to project his simulated authority, puffing his chest and trying to put some distance between them, "I thought you cloak and dagger types knew about him already."

She persisted, placing a knee between his legs and leaning in further, her next words leaving her lips in a threatening whisper against his ear.

" _Stephen_ , I like you..." she tenderly brushed her nose against the shell of his ear, enjoying the way he quivered beneath her, "but if you do not tell me everything you know..." her right hand left his side and rose, dark magicka blooming up in the palm of her hand as a stormy amethyst cloud, obsidian shards of crystal tinkling and swirling between her stretched fingertips.

"Your own family won't recognize you."

"Please...He hired me. I needed the gold, I've got my own problems in Wayrest you know..."

The crystals grew larger.

"He hired me," he began again, drawing a steadying breath, "He wanted a map of the tunnels beneath the city."

She shifted her fingers, spreading them even wider and pushing more magicka into the crystals to make them crackle and groan violently, their mass expanding tremendously before his eyes.

"He wants to get into the castle." 

_The King._

She tore away from him then, reining her power in and stiffly heading back down towards the bar.

"Why did he call you that?" He called to her over her shoulder, the innocent question stopping her cold, "Little bird?"

She didn't answer and so he continued sheepishly, "You looked as though it meant something to you."

_Perceptive bastard._

She considered him for an instant - he was looking at her with a curious expression, a cross between pity and understanding. It confounded her, made her skin tight and itchy and she groaned inwardly at the feeling. The only man to call her that was her husband and he was long gone; what was such an intimate expression doing coming from the lips of a cultist? She must have concerned Leveque because the next thing she knew he was in front of her with his hand on her shoulder. She sighed.

"You best go back to Wayrest, Leveque."

"Where we are won't matter," he supplied, rubbing the back of his neck, "Soon _he_ will be everywhere."


End file.
